


all the light, all my love

by goldexemption



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: !!!, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, Little bit of angst, M/M, No beta we die like fred, One-Shot, POV Harry Potter, different universe entirely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldexemption/pseuds/goldexemption
Summary: I’m screwed, Harry thinks, staring at the sway of Riddle’s arse as he walks, at his dark brown eyes, at the way he moves and walks and talks—I am completely and utterly screwed(and not in the fun way, thanks).aka there’s a fine line between love and hate, and Harry Potter thinks he’s just crossed it.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 7
Kudos: 93
Collections: Harry Potter and TMR





	all the light, all my love

**Author's Note:**

> hi! so yeah this fic was just a little plot-bunny that came to me and...i wrote it! any mistakes are my own, since it was written late at night when i should have been asleep. hope you enjoy, even if it's a bit short, and if you don't, tell me where I went wrong! (tomarry is one of my favourite pairings)

Harry doesn’t know when it happened — when he’d started noticing the sway of Riddle’s arse as he walked, when he’d started dreaming about those dark brown eyes, his soft pink lips. Probably in sixth-year, when Riddle had come out as gay. Harry hadn’t been sure about his sexuality then, and that had just confirmed it. 

_Tom Riddle is sin personified_ , Harry thinks, and resolves to stop thinking about him. That resolve does _not_ last long — only a couple seconds, in fact. 

_You know what? Fuck Riddle_.

And a few seconds later:

_I really really want to._

Harry groans and puts his head down on his hands, trying to stop thinking about the mental image _that_ conjures. “You okay, Harry?” Hermione asks from beside him, her concerned hazel eyes boring into Harry’s green ones. 

Her eyes aren’t the same as Riddle’s, but then again, no one’s are, no one can ever match his— “ _Harry_ ,” Hermione repeats, more forcefully this time. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” he finally manages to get out. “Yeah, I’m — fine.”

Hermione looks at him doubtfully but doesn’t call out his lie; instead, she turns back to Binns and starts taking notes. Harry snorts. Only _Hermione_ can find History of Magic interesting, especially when they’re learning about Goblin Rebellions (again).

Now that he thinks about it, Riddle probably finds History of Magic interesting as well. Once, in a disastrous episode that had never been repeated again due to Binns refusing to come out of his blackboard for two months (Dumbledore had had to find a substitute and _that_ was a different disaster entirely), the Gryffindors and Slytherins had been put together in History of Magic. 

It’d been chaos, but Tom Riddle was _still_ listening to Binns drone on about Elfric the Eager, hair falling into his eyes occasionally, _not that Harry noticed._ Once, when he’d got up, his arse—

Nope. _No_ , Harry isn’t going there again. Once a day is quite enough, thank you very much. Which gets him thinking about the Muggle expression: an apple a day keeps the doctor away, and thankfully he’s distracted for the rest of the lesson. 

After History of Magic, it’s lunch, and Harry goes downstairs to the Great Hall. It’s beautiful as always; candles suspended midair, filling the hall with a sort of homely yellow light. The enchanted ceiling shows it’s snowing outside, little flurries of white powder drifting down and occasionally landing on someone’s shoulder. The sky is a dark grey, even if it’s lunchtime, and Harry thinks that just about reflects his mood at the moment. 

It’s beautiful, but Harry barely even picks at his food, and pushes his chicken around with his fork. He’s not really hungry anyways, and how can he even eat when every time he looks at the Slytherin table he sees a bob of dark-brown hair, Riddle’s green-and-white scarf framing his face, and _really_ , it isn’t fair that one person can look so _pretty_ —

 _I’ve got it bad_ , Harry thinks to himself, partly as a distraction and partly because it’s true; he _does_ have it bad. He has since sixth-year. 

“ _Mate_ ,” Ron mumbles from beside him, through a mouth of food. “Just tell him how you feel already. ‘Snot like he can super-reject you or anything.” 

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry says, mournfully picking at his potatoes. “You’re really good at comforting people, you know that?”

“I try my best,” Ron replies cheerfully, and then gets serious again. “You actually _should_ tell him how you feel. Even if he’s an arsehole about it, ‘least you’ve tried, right?”

“Right…” Harry says. _Ron can be really logical, sometimes. I should listen to him more._

“And then if he says yes, you can go into the Slytherin dungeons and spy on them!” Ron finishes his sentence, beaming wildly, then takes another spoonful of mashed potatoes and mumbles something about evil rituals and sacrificing Muggles, after which Hermione joins in the conversation and soon they're arguing again. 

_Then again, maybe not._

The next lesson is potions, which is just _great_ ; Harry’s really in the mood for being berated and insulted; the perfect way to end his already _fantastic_ day. He and Ron walk down to the dungeons, joking all the way about quidditch, which admittedly lifts Harry’s spirits a bit. It’s distracting, their talk, and it’s nice to be around — to just _hang out —_ with a friend, not solving mysteries or worrying about anything.

“You gotta admit the Cannons aren’t what they used to be—"

“No!” shouts Ron, pumping the air with his fist, “Cannons all the way!”

“Agrippa’s gotten worse over the years,” Harry says, making a sad face. “You know, Ron, you need to face the the truth sometime soon, don't be in denial, it doesn't suit you—”

"No!” shouts Ron again. “I won’t stand here and watch you defile their name, even if you _are_ my best friend—”

“Mister Potter, Mister Weasley,” sneers a silky voice from behind them. 

_Fuck_ , Harry thinks, and swallows, the laughter in his throat dying a quick death, then turns around slowly, as if that will somehow save them from certain death via being chopped up into Potion Ingredients more expensive than they are, capital 'P' and 'I' included. Harry sees Ron doing much the same thing on his other side, his freckles seeming like little carved pieces of tomato, red against his stark-white face. 

_Yep. It’s Snape. Kill me now_ , Harry thinks glumly. _As if I don’t have enough to worry about already._

“My, _my_ , Potter,” Snape says, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. “Ten points from Gryffindor and the lesson hasn’t even started yet.” Snape smiles at them, but it isn’t a nice expression, more like a ‘I-could-kill-you-in-the-middle-of-the-night-and-no-one-would-know-or-care’ one. 

Ron gulps. Snape seems to take this as a sign that they are properly scared, and sweeps into the Potions classroom, robes billowing out from his sides like smoke. _I really should learn how to do that soon_ , Harry thinks _, if only to scare the Dursleys in the summer._

Harry shares a glance with Ron, and walks inside the classroom, taking a chair at the very front, next to Hermione. The trio usually sit at the back-left, since that’s closest to the door and potions cabinet, but today those seats are taken by Seamus, Dean, and Neville, which is rather disappointing, seeing they'll have to sit away from the door and next to Snape. The Slytherins sit on the right of the classroom, and Tom Riddle and his 'followers' sit at the back, next to the storage room. 

(Harry doesn't know why he's thinking about him again). 

“Why are you guys late?” whispers Hermione, leaning in, and Harry starts guiltily from thinking about— well, you-know-who, pun intended.

"Nothing. Just Snape was being a prat, as usual.”

“ _Professor_ Snape,” Hermione replies absently, already copying down notes from the blackboard. Harry notices however that she doesn’t refute the ‘prat’ accusation, and has to stifle a laugh. _Snape will definitely kill me if I laugh._

Harry puts his head down on the desk, on his arms, and stares sideways at his quill. He's always thought it's a little silly for the Wizarding World to use quills — it's almost the twenty-first century, after all, and even Muggles stopped ages ago. 

_And someone should really make a — a sort of pre-school, for Muggleborns and half-bloods who live in the Muggle world. It really isn't fair that pure-bloods have so much time to prepare and get used to magic, and then Muggleborns get teased and bullied for it. It isn't fair. Maybe I should do something about that when I get older._

His thoughts are interrupted by Malfoy's answer to Snape, and Harry stores those thoughts in the 'what-to-change-when-I-take-over-the-world' folder, to think about and turn over later. 

“The Alihotsy Draught causes extreme laughter in the drinker, Professor,” says Malfoy (the older one; Lucius), and smirks, as if he already knows he’s gotten the answer right. Lucius is always like that, especially when he's insulting Ron and his family, and Harry has to resist the urge to cast a hex — nothing major, or he'll get in trouble — at him. _Just one would be nice_. 

“Very good, Malfoy. At least _someone—_ ” Snape’s eyes go to Harry’s side of the room “—has read their textbooks before coming to class. Five points to Slytherin.” He walks to the blackboard again and starts scratching down the instructions with white chalk. Harry catches a bit of what he’s writing about Aconite (he really needs to get new glasses) when Snape starts talking again. 

“Since I don’t trust most of you dunderheads not to mess something up on this assignment, you’ll be working in pairs. If you have any concerns, do _not_ come to me. I don’t care,” he says, sneer becoming more pronounced as he surveys the room. “Longbottom, you’re with Zabini — at least _one_ of you doesn’t blow things up on a regular basis, Malfoy with...Weasley—”

Ron scowls, and makes a fist-bump with Harry before walking to the Slytherin side of the room— 

“—Goyle with Thomas, Parkinson and Granger—”

Hermione nods at Harry, a distracted look in her eyes as she gathers her books—

“—Nott and Finnigan, Riddle and...let’s see, _Potter_ —”

 _Fuck_ , Harry thinks, once the words have properly sunk into his brain. He stares at his desk, eyes unseeing, and only looks up when Ron hears Snape’s words and gives Harry a sympathetic glance. He can’t do anything to help, Harry knows, but it doesn’t stop him from hoping that someone, _anyone_ , can help him get out of this awful mess. 

_This can’t be happening. Please say this isn’t happening—_

“Potter,” says an unimpressed, too-familiar voice from beside him, “what are you doing?” 

Harry whips around, pink staining his cheeks, even more so when he realises Riddle looks like he’s been standing there for a while. “Erm. Nothing, Riddle,” he manages, very eloquently indeed. 

Riddle doesn’t look like he’s impressed with Harry’s vocabulary either, and grimaces, the expression seeming strange on his face, but doesn't say anything about it. “If you say so. Shall we start, then?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and instead starts ordering Harry around. “Go and get the ingredients.”

Harry considers ignoring him, but decides, in the end, that it isn’t worth it. _Snape will just be mad at me, though that might be worth it to see Riddle in trouble. ...No, Snape won’t believe me, and just take points_ , he thinks grumpily, and grabs the powdered bicorn horn from the cupboard. _Then Gryffindor will be mad at me, and what is my life anyway._

Harry grabs the rest of the ingredients _—_ mulberry leaves, golden snitch wings, Grianan Hair, lobalug venom — he’s not going to list all of them— and dumps them on the desk that he shares (for the moment) with Riddle, ignoring the aggravated look the other boy gives him. 

“Did your aunt never teach you how to handle Potions ingredients?” Riddle asks, tone vaguely curious. 

Harry shoots him a flat look. “My aunt’s a Muggle, as you well know. And it’s none of your business anyway.” 

“Isn’t it, _Harry_?” 

The shock of hearing his first name out of Riddle’s mouth is strange, and Harry jolts, which, he realises a moment later, is probably the reaction the other boy was going for. “No,” Harry replies firmly. “It’s none of your business.” 

Thankfully, Riddle doesn’t say anything more about it, and only raises an eyebrow. “I’ll start working on the potion, then. You just stay back and… try not to mess anything up.” 

Harry wrinkles his nose, but does, in the end, stay back. _I probably will mess something up. And it’s not worth it, doing something on purpose just to spite Riddle._

For about thirty minutes he watches Riddle work, and occasionally chops up some ingredients when Snape glances over, trying to look busy. He starts to draw either snakes or hills on his notebook — he can't decide which — for a few minutes, before he gets bored, and starts to watch Riddle work again. 

...And then Harry starts to notice inconvenient... _things_ about Riddle. _(damn hormones!)_ Like the way he doesn't scowl, or glare...just _thinks_ about the potion, eyebrows furrowed in a ridiculously ~~cute~~ annoying way. He's concentrated on his work, as well, with brown eyes Harry is only starting to notice have golden specks in it, like the glitter Aunt Petunia squeals about getting the house dirty, nevermind the fact that she isn't even the one cleaning. Riddle sort of lets down his walls, his mask, when he's working, and Harry is all here for it.

_God, I’m not making sense, am I?_

Harry groans out loud, disturbing the desk beside them, and the occupants of the desk casts a wary look at Harry, and inches away slowly like you would from a starving tiger who hasn't eaten meat for a long time. Harry wants to bang his head against the nearest wall even more, now. He doesn’t, in the end, and settles for glaring at the desk like it’s responsible for all the world’s wrongs. 

A few moments later of determinedly _not_ looking at Riddle, the potion is complete, and shines a toxic cyan. It looks rather poisonous as well, but Riddle is looking proudly down at it, and Harry supposes that means it’s okay. The other boy has never gotten a potion wrong before, and won't, since Harry's not here to 'help.'

Harry bags the potion, ignoring Riddle's _look_ — he's not sure what that's about — and brings it to Snape’s desk, where the man is sitting and correcting essays. Most of them have red marks all over them, and Harry feels rather sympathetic towards whoever owns them, considering it looks like about half the students failed. “I suppose Riddle did all the work here, Potter. Three points from Gryffindor for” —he looks Harry up and down— “making your partner do all the work, and being lazy, just like your father.” 

Harry doesn’t reply, just keeps his head down and clenches his fist, digging his nails into his palm and creating little white marks. He’s gotten a lot better at keeping his temper in since he’d gone to Hogwarts. Insults of his father, courtesy of Snape, and his Mum, courtesy of all the (fucking stupid) people who believe in (fucking stupid) beliefs like blood purity slide off his back like water in a way they never would have before, at the Dursleys. Merlin knows that would have been useful, back then — he probably wouldn't have gotten locked in the cupboard as much. _I guess I can thank Snape and blood purists for that, if not anything else._

“ _Go_ ,” Snape says, and starts marking essays again. Harry takes this as the dismissal it is and stumbles away from the desk, back to his seat. Surprisingly, Riddle is still there. Harry had thought he would have gone back to the Slytherin side as soon as he could — if only to get away from the _Gryffindors_.

“Go away, Riddle,” Harry says flatly, taking his seat. “Why’re you even here?” Not really expecting an answer, he starts collecting up his books, about to go over to Ron, who’s at the table across them, then—

“No reason. Can’t we just chat?” replies Riddle. There’s an amused look on his face and Harry wants to crawl in a hole and die there.

“Alright,” Harry answers, suspiciously. He’s never trusted Riddle and he’s not going to start now, even if his hair is really nice and neat and almost cute, the way it's so effortlessly combed out—

_Anyway._

Riddle looks casually at where Hermione is standing, frizzy hair in a bun, nose stuck in a thick book as she leans against the wall, ignoring everything but the page in front of her. “Your friend — what’s her name? Granger, was it? She’s looking really nice today,” he says absently.

“Shove off, Riddle,” Harry says via a reply, his mood almost instantly turning bad, not that it’d been great in the first place. “Hermione’s too good for you.” 

His chest is burning fiercely for some reason, and it makes it difficult to breathe, or even to look _away_ from the pair of brown eyes staring down at him quizzically, no doubt wondering why he’s so touchy about this. He holds the gaze, and it's Harry that looks away first, that finally breaks from what feels like a spell and walks quickly — runs, almost — away, leaving Riddle standing in the hallway behind him.

* * *

Harry goes up to his dormitory. It's a free lesson and he doesn’t know where else to go; just knows Neville won’t be there, since he’s probably in the greenhouse; he saw Seamus and Dean in the broom cabinet and Harry wants a bit of alone time, anyway. 

He climbs into his four-posted bed and draws the curtains— and then wraps his arms around his legs and tries not to cry. Harry hasn’t cried since he was six, and the Dursleys had locked him in the cupboard again when he’d tried _so hard_ to make them love him. Back it had felt like the end of the world, but he’d survived. 

_Just like I will now_ , Harry thinks _, even if Riddle hates me forever and there’s a Dark Lord who killed my parents after my blood._

Harry _did_ use to hate Riddle fiercely, for about a period of three years; second to fifth. The basilisk had gotten released from the Chamber of Secrets second-year, and Riddle had strutted around school, not outright _saying_ anything about Muggleborns but implying it nonetheless. The Malfoy twins had also called Hermione a Mudblood, and she’d cried.

(Harry hasn’t forgiven the Malfoys for that, and neither has Ron — not that the twins have ever _tried_ to earn their forgiveness). 

The Malfoys did whatever Riddle told them to do, so it was a reasonable leap of logic to assume while Riddle didn’t do anything to purposely aggravate Hermione, he didn’t _stop_ them either. Which was almost as bad as doing something. 

_But_.

(Harry still remembered first-year). 

They’d been the only two first-year boys left at the castle; no family, no one that _wanted_ them, in any case. The Dursleys had sent Harry a sock, for Christmas, which was… 

Yeah. It wasn’t great, but Harry shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. He’d still cried, though, still sniffled through his tears in the Great Hall as everyone danced around him and wished his parents were alive, so he could have someone who would love him. Tom Riddle — Harry hadn’t known him then, only that he was a Slytherin and didn’t have any family and chose to stay over the Christmas break, _like himself —_ came over and offered him a cup of hot chocolate, whipped cream and marshmallows and all. 

“You look like you need it,” Tom Riddle had said, dark brown eyes staring intently into Harry’s own, looking almost embarrassed, for some reason, as if afraid to be caught helping someone else. 

“Thanks,” Harry sniffled, and looked up at the kind person who’d handed him a cup of chocolate. “You should get one for yourself, too.”

The other boy shook his head, and made to go back to his table before Harry grabbed his hands and said, in a soft voice, “Stay.” Riddle — or Tom as Harry had called him then — hesitated for a second, and then sat down next to Harry.

They’d talked until midnight, about all sorts of things — homework and classes and Dark Lords and friends and Dursleys and orphanages — it had, quite honestly, been one of the best nights Harry had had and they’d ended the day with a promise to meet tomorrow, both boys grinning exuberantly, having finally found someone who _understood_ them. 

Except their next meeting never came. Harry had waited there for ages, in the same spot as yesterday, buzzing with excitement and anticipation but Riddle had never come. For the rest of the year Riddle had avoided Harry's accusing gaze when their eyes met in the hallways, and that night had simply seemed to be a dream. Certainly Harry had wondered more than once if it had ever even happened.

Then it was second-year, and the whole incident with the Basilisk and the Chamber of Secrets and Hermione being called a Mudblood had just ruined whatever chances their relationship had had to develop, and their sort of friendship collapsed into mutual hatred. 

At least on Harry’s side. He isn’t sure about Riddle, even if they've been sort-of fighting for...how many years now? Harry rolls over on his side and tries to remember — he's never exactly been very good at Math, even in Primary, before Hogwarts. It wasn't as if the Dursleys had (god forbid) actually _encouraged_ him, or dared him to _try his best._

“Hey, Harry,” a voice calls from the sofa, startling him from his thoughts. “D’you know where Dean is? I gotta tell him something.” It’s Seamus, Harry realises as he turns around and shakes his head.

“No, I haven’t seen him since breakfast. I’ll let him know you’re looking for him, if I see him again.”

“Thanks,” Seamus replies, and ducks out of the common room. “See ya later!” 

“See you,” Harry says, and sits back on his bed. He still doesn’t know what to do about Riddle but and his feelings — his stupid, _stupid_ feelings but—

 _Oh, fuck it. I’ll just tell him_ , he thinks to himself. _I’m so sick of this feeling, and— and if he doesn’t like me back that's... okay, I suppose. At least I’ve tried._

 _Should I really?_ says a voice that sounds suspiciously like Aunt Petunia, and Harry pauses, doubt rising like a burning wildfire inside him, when a new voice steps in and takes center stage. 

_Yeah, let’s just do this, let’s get it over with_ , it says, and with a newfound determination of _I can do this!,_ Harry bounces up from his bed and walks to the corridor, outside the common room. He pauses, for a second, before running downstairs, to the Library, where he knows Riddle is. 

He is there, as it turns out. Harry does _not_ spare a thought on the fact that he knew where Riddle was in an instant, and no, inner voice, that is not disturbing at all and it’ll be greatly appreciated if you could just shut _up_ and let me get on with my confrontation, thank you! 

Tom Riddle is reading a thick, dusty book, with red stains on it that Harry is kind of suspicious of. His head is bent over the book, and he looks entirely engrossed in it, which is, Harry thinks, probably the reason he doesn’t see Harry until it’s too late to avoid him.

“Riddle,” Harry says, and drags him by his sleeve to the Room of Requirement. He doesn’t want anyone to hear his confession and so thinks: _I need a place where no one can hear us._ Harry sits down on a convenient sofa by the door, and motions for Riddle to sit down as well. “I need to tell you something.” 

“Alright…” Riddle looks kind of suspicious, now. Harry assumes he knows about the Room of Requirement already, or else he would be more surprised and— _Stop stalling_ , Harry thinks to himself. _Let’s just… get it over with._

“I,” Harry starts and stops. All the plans of what he means to say have dissolved now that he’s looking into Tom’s unimpressed face, and thoughts of _how did I think I could do this I’m an idiot why didn’t I prepare more_ are rushing in, and he feels like he's drowning in a series of self-deprecating thoughts. 

“I like you,” he blurts out after the silence has become awkward enough. “Like, _like_ like, not just as a friend — not that we’re friends—”

 _God._ He’s a fucking disaster, and Harry does _not_ want to look up into Tom’s face, doesn’t want to see the rejection that’s surely coming. He might be nice enough to say it isn’t personal — of course it is — but this moment will be between them forever, and stay there and— And why _would_ Tom want him anyway? He’s an idiot—

 _“Harry_ ,” says Tom, interrupting his thoughts, and as Harry looks up he can see Tom’s dark brown eyes full of wonder. The tiny flecks of bright pure gold Harry sees in Tom’s eyes seem to sparkle with glee, with _hope_. “I —didn’t think you would _ever_ — I like you too, Harry.”

“You... what?” Harry replies. _Tom Riddle likes me back? All this time I’ve been hoping-wishing-dreaming and— he’s felt the same?_ “You...like me?”

“Yes,” Tom says. “I do. Very much, actually. Even if you are an idiot sometimes.” 

“Hey!” says Harry, and he’s a bit thankful for the distraction, and not mad at all. He knows Tom doesn’t mean it, knows it like he knows his own name, knows it in a way he wouldn’t have, just a few hours ago, when they'd still been half-rivals. 

Tom looks down at Harry, and he squirms, uncomfortable with the attention even though it’s positive. At least Harry thinks it's positive. _I mean, it might not be but he wouldn't say he likes me if he didn't, would he? unless it's a joke—_

And then Harry can’t think anymore because Tom has leaned down and kissed him. Tom’s lips are warm, and inviting, and Harry can’t think or feel anything except the other boy wrapped around himself. It feels like they’re the only two people in the world, like the rest of the world don’t matter when—

When he’s feeling _this_. An explosion of love and light and warmth rushes through Harry, and in that moment he feels as if he could just fly off the ground without any help from magic and float over Tom's head, drunk on exhilaration and, most of all, _joy_ like he's never felt it before. A thousand different shades of gold seem to make up Harry's world at the moment, their magic entwined together, a myriad of colours he's never seen before, beautiful and singing and _magnificent_. 

Tom pulls back as much as he can, with Harry’s arms still wrapped around his neck. Harry feels a bit insecure for a second, unsafe without Tom's body around his and— _N_ _o, I know Tom likes me,_ he thinks, and looks up into Tom's eyes, which, Harry now notices are absolutely _lovely_ , and really, how has he never noticed it before? "Hermione will be glad we're— whatever we are, now. She'll have someone to talk to, about History of Magic. Me and Ron aren't that interested," Harry says.

Tom grins, and curls his arm around Harry's shoulder. "Of course. Several of her theories I'm quite interested in," he says, and they're silent for a few minutes, the afternoon peaceful around them. 

"What _are_ we?" Harry asks suddenly. "Boyfriends or—"

"Unless you don't want to be," Tom replies, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice. "I mean of course we don't _have_ to be, unless you want to be, not that I mind—"

"I don't," Harry says, and grabs Tom's hand again. "Boyfriends, then?"

“Yes," Tom says, and leans down to kiss Harry again, before pulling away. "That Granger of yours _does_ have some good points, though. I read her essay, and she's right, the Wizarding Society is practically _Jacobean_ —” 

“Shut up and kiss me,” Harry breathes against Tom’s lips, feeling light-headed and disbelieving and— _hopeful_ for the future, for the first in a long while. Tom rolls his eyes fondly and obliges. 

(In the future Harry knows there will be questions and accusations and explanations and they’ll have to _talk_. Properly. But that can wait. For now, he just leans against Tom and feels, with his entire soul and heart, completely _happy_.) 

There’s a fine line between love and hate, and Harry Potter thinks he’s just crossed it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! <3 hope you enjoyed! (if you'd like, leave a kudos or a comment :)


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